


A Leaf From the Headmaster's Book

by nornling



Series: The Year Before Tomorrow [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark!Hermione, Death Wish, Depression, Grey!Hermione, Hybrid Legilimency, Insanity, Moral Decline, PTSD, Pureblood Hermione Granger, The Cave, Unrepentant Mind Control, callous narrator, child endangerment, political maneuvering, the locket, unconventional self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 17:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17944370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nornling/pseuds/nornling
Summary: ...or, How to Orchestrate Your Own Death.





	1. Greater Good

**** "Where is Vici? Dark! Dark!"

"You're fine," Hermione grumbled. She opened her eyes and for a moment saw nothing at all. "Can you see, Vici?" she asked.

"Who is you? Where is Mistress? Mistress, Vici is sorry, Vici is bad elf, please take Vici out of dark!”

Hermione sighed. The house elf's outline was gradually forming in the darkness. But how could that be? There was no light source whatsoever, as far as Hermione could tell. Her wand arm itched to raise and cast some diagnostic spells, but that would hardly help. She couldn't even cast a Lumos. "Vici, come here," she said, cutting off the elf’s hysterical squeaks.

Vici obeyed, shutting up immediately, and Hermione watched with sharp eyes how her feet didn't press upon a floor of any kind. When Hermione concentrated, she noticed that the space around her was neither solid nor gaseous, but almost as a liquid. Yet, her movement wasn't hindered in the least.

"Are we even occupying space?" she muttered to herself. "Just where are we?" The answer came almost as soon as she voiced the question: they were in the Nothing, the place between destinations, the place where Vanished objects go.

"Who is you? We must be leaving this place," Vici squeaked, real terror in her voice.

"Soon," said Hermione. Couldn't Vici see what an opportunity this was? There were no, absolutely  _ no _ records of anyone being in this place. She was sure there would be negative effects were they to remain too long, but a few minutes would hardly hurt. "I am Hermione, and I am your Mistress. Don't you remember?"

She stood- had she been sitting in the first place? Was it perhaps just a matter of perspective? Hermione grasped Vici's tiny hand and focused on the comparatively simple act of moving. Just putting one foot in front of the other didn't seem to be enough, but there was no landmark to use as a focal point.

No gravity, no light, no objects- and so she and Vici were the Something which contrasted the Nothing.

Sooner than Hermione had hoped, she felt the pressure of thought begin to lift away. It was time. "Take us home," she said, and Vici obeyed with stupid eyes.

The noise, the vision, the Presence of Something was both painful and comforting. Yet again it took them a few moments to adjust to their surroundings.

"Who have you brought us, Vici?" cried Rhea, alarmed and calm in the same breath.

That was right. Hermione had a job to do.

She swept into a curtsy, instructions surfacing like blisters from a burn through the haze of a swelling migraine. "You look tired, Lady Selwyn," she said, trying not to slur. "Do you jest?"

Rhea stopped short and, in her confusion, allowed Hermione to take her hand. The power Hermione sent through her foster mother was overkill, more than likely, and she had to clench her fist to keep Rhea from jerking away.

It was much, much easier to nudge the appropriate memories into place now that she knew the structure of Rhea's mind. After that initial struggle, Rhea kept still and allowed Hermione to work on her brain.

"What is Miss Hermi... Herman... Hermy doing?"

There was the other problem: Vici didn't remember her. How terrifying it must have been, to be pulled into the Nothing without warning! "Transfer the bond," Hermione said, addressing Rhea. Rhea, still glassy-eyed, raised her wand and spoke the words.

"As I said before, I am Hermione Selwyn. I am your Mistress. You are my companion- now give me your hand."

Vici, now having no choice, obeyed. It took a minute more to transform her into the Vici of the previous timeline. The moral implications never even occurred to her.

Now she just had to find Morfan, and her family would be just the way she wanted it.

*|II8II|*

She didn't leave Selwyn Estate until well into July, and even then only when Vici could accompany her. Her consciousness grew swollen with idle power. Was this how Tom Riddle had felt? Had he grown weary of having no external conflict, of being universally adored? Perhaps he saw it as his due. Perhaps he'd been angry and confused when the rare person saw through his tricks- Albus, for instance.

Hermione was beginning to become uneasy. Men forged in fire did not welcome the tranquility of a still lake. Men borne of battle knew not how to handle peace.

Not that it was peace, exactly. It was avoidance. She knew that, knew that it wasn't healthy, but still she isolated herself.

On July 31st, Hermione decided that enough was enough. She saw Harry everywhere: in the chair opposite hers in the library, next to her on her bed, on his broom in the sky outside. How different she was! Would he even recognize her anymore? She had the same hair, same face, but her mind was no longer the same. Her morals were trashed and twisted. She wasn't golden anymore.

It hurt. She screamed into the baby-gradient walls, tore apart her room with her bare hands and feet, and still it hurt.

"Vici!" she cried, staring at her ruined bedroom.

"Hermy, what has you done?" Vici tsked, and with a wave of her thin little arm everything was as it was.

"Take me to Hogsmeade." Hermione tore a hand through her hair, ignoring the pain as it caught on the knots and tugged at her scalp. "Now."

Even Vici's light touch made her skin crawl, and she pulled away as soon as they touched down in front of the Hog's Head. How Vici knew, Hermione couldn't say, but it was the right choice. Aberforth was her last connection to the future, to the good fight, to her old self.

Still, her feet were as if staked to the ground. For several long seconds, Hermione could not move. Her emotions rose and rose until her vision went black and her breathing stopped, and then as if a drain opened it swirled down into the depths of her again, and she could move.

The Hog's Head was a time capsule. It never changed. Even the patrons, wizards she'd come to know her first year in the past, were the same. Feeling as though she dragged her constraints behind her, Hermione found a booth and sat. "Wine," she said to the scuffed oaken tabletop. "Quality doesn't matter."

Out of the corner of her eye she tracked Vici, the diminutive being reaching up to the counter to collect her bottle with one hand and dropping a few coins with the other.

Not for the first time, Hermione missed her magic with a desperation which ached. Her skin was coated in crumbling concrete, and it was a chore to move. Vici, knowing somehow what she wanted, pulled the cork from the bottle.

Harry... Harry would understand. He would, wouldn't he? She wasn't sure. She remembered his irrational obstinance in the face of Ginny's death, remembered how oblivious he was to Draco's choice to follow him to hell, remembered how stubbornly he clung to the Light. Remembered his fury as they knelt before Ron's makeshift headstone. Remembered how cold it got, how tired they both were, how food was scarce. Remembered the shock in his eyes as the Avada Kedavra hit him. Remembered his belief that everything would work out, that despite everything they would come out victorious. They were the heroes, after all.

She was the last of them. They'd passed the torch on to her, and she'd let it go out. No one could call her a hero anymore. When she saw him again, would he forgive her for losing herself? Even if she ended up failing?

There was only one way he would forgive her, Hermione decided. If she killed Voldemort, if she saved everyone, he wouldn't mind that she'd become tainted. He would welcome her into death as his friend once again. She knew it, she knew it, she knew it.

The wine was gone. Hermione stared into the thick, green glass, feeling an ancient determination mingle with the warmth in her belly. She aches, and for a moment she is acutely aware of the setting sun. It was time to stop filling her well with sludge. It was time to feel again.

Hermione scowled at the tabletop. “Let’s go, Vici.”

“But we just got here,” Vici said. “Vici doesn’t understand. Does you not like your drink?”

“The drink was fine,” said Hermione. “But it’s time to go.” 

“Where does you want to go?”

“The Ring.”

“The ring, Miss?”

“Give me your hand,” Hermione grumbled. She’d forgotten to plant the memories of the Horcruxes and their locations when she was reformatting Vici’s mind. 

The deed done, Vici blinked her tennis ball eyes and took Hermione by the elbow. They were gone a moment later.

*|II8II|*

“Hermione, honey, please be careful,” Rhea said, looking very much as though she wanted to hug her foster daughter but knowing better. “I trust you’ll make us proud.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “With luck, I’ll be accepting an offer by graduation.” It was a harmless promise, since she knew full well that she wouldn’t make it to graduation. Rhea wouldn’t care about her  _ grades _ , anyway. 

“I know you’ve made up a list, but we would appreciate it if you’d send us another based on your personal impressions.”

“As you wish,” Hermione said, looking behind her at the nearly-empty platform. They were early, at Hermione’s request. “I need to go stake a claim before too many people get here. I’ll see you in a few months. Take care.”

“Take care,” Morfan grumbled.

“Take care!” said Rhea.

Hermione pressed her lips together in what passed for a smile and stepped around them to the train entrance. She hauled herself up and inside. She saw not a single other soul but nevertheless passed the first few compartments before choosing one in the middle of the train. 

She stretched across the length of a whole seat, one arm dangling off the edge and the other tucked under her cheek. There was no change for some time as she hovered between consciousness and sleep, unseeing eyes trained on the door.

After at least an hour, the door slid open so forcefully that it recoiled from the wall. The glass shuddered, and so did Hermione, who came to alertness with a rapidity that left her panicked for a second or two. “Oh,” squeaked a tiny Gwendolyn Morgan. “I’m sorry! I’ll find another seat.” The future Quidditch player spun and nearly ran, slamming the door behind her with a force that Hermione believed was simply uncontrolled. 

From then on it was impossible to relax into the same trance-like state as before, because even when the door didn’t open, the footsteps outside echoed like small armies. Hermione shivered in her seat and waited with wide eyes for the train to move. 

Soon, the compartments were so full that students stopped passing her by and instead insisted on filling in the seats around her. Hermione jealously guarded her bench, and no one was so eager to have it that they challenged her for it. 

At last, the whistle sounded and the ground shook, and they were off.

The hum of conversation vibrated in her head, and Hermione leaned back with a heavy sigh. No sooner had she begun to adjust to the noise level when the compartment door slid open again. 

“Edgar Bones, I  _ know  _ it was you!” A stocky, red-headed seventh year girl shrieked. She was flanked on either side by a young Rolanda Hooch and another girl whom Hermione was fairly confident would become Amos Diggory’s wife. Diana Fawcett, if she wasn’t mistaken. 

Edgar Bones, far from being intimidated by his assailant, was shouting with laughter. Aidan Lynch and Benji Fenwick were just as amused. 

Hermione squinted at the redheaded seventh year—Amelia, her memory told her. Amelia Bones. Edgar Bones’s older sister. Now that she was paying closer attention, she noticed that her shoes weren’t shoes at all, but waggling fish tails.

“You tell me the countercurse right now!” Amelia Bones demanded, seeming almost on the verge of tears. 

“Not a chance,” Edgar Bones snickered. 

“It’s Finite Piscores,” Hermione said. “Same wand motion as Finite Incantatem.” 

The three seventh years looked to her, surprise and suspicion on their faces. “Thanks,” said Amelia cautiously.

“Uh-huh.” said Hermione. “But would you mind doing that somewhere else?”

They muttered their assent and closed the much-abused door far more gently behind them. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Aidan Lynch whined, Irish accent so strong as to render his tone comical. 

“Just imagine her having to go to the Welcoming Feast like that!” said Benji Fenwick. 

“It would’ve been better if they’d needed help undoing the whole thing, though,” Edgar sighed. 

Hermione shook her head. She wouldn’t ask. 

The boys chattered their disappointment for several more minutes, having evidently forgotten their displeasure with Hermione’s interference. 

She looked out the window, trying to catch individual trees as they blurred past the glass, and the voices dulled into white noise.

Hours passed like that, with Hermione and the two third-years quietly entertaining themselves and the three fifth-year boys getting louder and louder as teenage boys tended to do when left unchecked. 

It was almost pleasant. 

Before long, those who hadn’t already changed stuffed themselves into their robes. Half an hour later, they pulled into Hogsmeade Station. 

The short walk to the carriages was just as uneventful as the longer ride to Hogwarts, and soon they all piled into the Great Hall. 

Hermione could taste the excitement in the air. It was hard not to love Hogwarts, even if only because those under seventeen could only perform magic on her grounds. 

They didn’t have to wait much longer before the first years filed in in neat columns, chattering their nerves like birds. The list was read, and, unlike the year before, Hermione’s name was nestled in between Pontner, Roddy and Smethley, Veronica. She stood, wondering whether they’d assumed she would go with the first years for a boat ride and feeling a perverse satisfaction that she’d disrupted their plans. Eyes lined her walk up to the dias, and when she put the Hat on her head she felt them all the more strongly. 

“How many times will I have to do this?” Hermione sighed.

“As many times as necessary,” the Hat supplied unhelpfully.  

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Do your worst,” she said. 

There was silence for a second, and then the Hat said, “When you were in the Nothing, what was your motivation for staying there?”

“You already know,” Hermione grumbled. “Pursuit of knowledge.”

“Ravenclaw would suit you,” the Hat said, sounding disappointed.

“Then put me there.”

“About that... Well, you have some mighty ambition in that brain of yours. And you are a Pureblood now. You wouldn’t go amiss in Slytherin.”

“Are you kidding? I would be destroyed in an instant. Ravenclaws leave well enough alone, and I can do what I need to do. Not so in Slytherin. They’re far too involved in one another’s business, and I have no confidence whatsoever that I won’t end up ruining this timeline because I can’t keep my Housemates in check.”

“If you say so. RAVENCLAW.”

Hermione pulled the hat off and returned to her seat at Ravenclaw table. At least she was more lucid this time around, and she met the curious, wary gazes with a level of fury which she wasn’t even aware of. 

No one spoke to the angry transfer student, and that was fine with her. 

*|II8II|*

Hermione wasted very little time reintroducing herself to Regulus and Severus. It had become clear over the years that she  _ needed _ companions, if not friends, and those two at least fulfilled the dual purpose of being useful. 

She’d already wasted more than enough time, and she had none to spare. Not for the first time, she cursed her tendency to flounder in the face of the long-haul. 

It was vital that she have all the Horcruxes destroyed. Without that, there was little point in doing anything else. Sure, she could leave it to the Dumbledore brothers, but it was no sure thing and even after that Voldemort would need to die. It was too easy to forget that no one had known of the Horcruxes because no one had ever gotten close enough to try killing him. Even without Horcruxes in the picture he was a formidable wizard, and certainly difficult to kill. 

In order to destroy every Horcrux in enough time to also bid to destroy Tom Riddle, she would need everything in its place. That was no blind guesswork, either; she’d calculated this problem again and again, and every time the solution was the same. 

The easiest was undoubtedly the Diadem, which she’d already collected on her very first night. It was safely in Vici’s care. After that were those which were already in position and had been since before her arrival: the Diary, the Cup, and the Ring. That left only the Locket. Of the Horcruxes, it was undoubtedly the most elaborately guarded. That was likely because it was Slytherin’s. 

What were his plans, then, for the others? Entrust them to other families for a few decades, sure, but what about after the inevitable deaths of his followers? Would he really be so cocky as to think that all of their descendants would follow him? The Lestranges never procreated, true, but Lucius Malfoy’s only child turned against the Dark Lord to protect Harry. If the Diary had still been in action, he would have delivered it to Harry and Hermione. That was one Horcrux which was doomed to destruction several ways over! 

And Gringott’s. He’d given the cup to Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange as a wedding gift and they’d placed it in their vault. At least Gringott’s was thought to be the safest place to store something, but it wasn’t foolproof by a long shot. It just wasn’t viable as a long-term plan, and certainly not considering Voldemort didn’t plan on ever dying. 

His first Horcrux, the Ring, was placed in the Gaunt house, further displaying his arrogance. It was under minimal protection, as well. He relied on the secrecy of the location, which was never a good long-term plan, ever. 

For someone so intelligent, he seemed to have put very little thought into the protection of  _ pieces of his soul _ . 

It gave Hermione the jitters. She wouldn’t discount the possibility of an ace up his sleeve. She would be stupid to take his carelessness for granted. 

If all of the Horcruxes were in place except for one, then she needed to get that one in place. The Locket would be hanging about his neck until the Cave was ready, and she’d have no chance of retrieving it there. How could she speed up the series of events which led to its successful placement? 

The potion would have to be brewed, the Inferi created, the blood wards activated. It wasn’t the work of a day, or even a week. The potion alone would take a moon cycle to brew, and that was after cutting a few corners. Would he do that himself, or trust someone else with it? She couldn’t quite picture Tom Riddle cutting time out of his day to slave over a potion, for it required almost constant supervision. Someone else, then. The reason Severus had been such a prize before he’d ever turned spy was that he was a Master Potioneer.

That was her way in, then, for Severus wouldn’t become a Death Eater until after graduation, though he’d been sponsored by Lucius Malfoy by Christmas his sixth year. He wouldn’t be immediately saddled with the job, so it would be months before the potion would be brewed and ready. 

She would have to find a way to brew it herself, or to get someone to brew it for her. Once that was done, she would have to get it to Voldemort in a way he wouldn’t be suspicious of. She needed to know what he was thinking, what he was doing. She needed an in. A spy. 

But who would have both the clout to know these things and the conscience to defect? Anyone who attended Hogwarts would still be proving themselves and unlikely to hear anything truly important. She needed someone who was  _ already _ influential. 

Perhaps she was going about it the wrong way. With her magical core still wildly unstable, she couldn’t possibly join the Death Eaters herself, nor would she have the time to rise up in the ranks. However, just because she couldn’t  _ join _ didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend to be sympathetic to the cause, as so many Pureblooded wives and daughters were doing. She was the direct family member of Gwion Selwyn, and in fact her rank within the family surpassed his own, for she was of the patriarchal line and he was not. How could she have overlooked her own influence? It would be the work of an afternoon to find out what she could about him, and then to begin a correspondence. 

Her smile had grown too large, and Severus looked up from his book to watch her with unease so clear on his harsh features. “All is well,” she assured him. Then she lowered her voice, looked him directly in the eye, and said, “I have a favour to ask of you.”

“What is it?” He was unable to look away, not with their minds connected as they were. Hermione oozed over his relatively flimsy mental barriers, spreading in a thin layer over the entirety of his walls, surrounding his mind. Once she was hooked in place, it took only a moment to contract, thus pulling his defences out of place. She slipped in through the crack with ease. 

“There’s a potion I want you to make for me,” she said, nudging his mind. “Please?” That word, used with a certain inflection, was programmed to trigger automatic acquiescence, but only when coming from her. She solidified the command, and was pleased to see him nod. 

“If that’s what you want,” Severus grumbled. “What potion?”

Hermione smiled but didn’t let his mind go. “The Drink of Despair,” she said. “I will give you the recipe. You may make alterations to the preparation so long as the end result is the same. I trust in your abilities.”

To Hermione’s pleasure, his resolve didn’t even twitch. “I’ll be expected to fetch ingredients?” he asked. 

“No,” she said, tilting her head. “I don’t suppose that would be fair. I will provide everything you’ll need.” Sometimes she forgot that Severus was, essentially, a nearly-destitute Halfblood. Some of the ingredients were both rare and outrageously expensive. Hermione wasn’t used to having the means to collect such things, herself, but she supposed there were multiple advantages to having attached herself to a Pureblood family of good standing. 

She would still have to be careful that she not involve herself too obviously by leaving a gold or paper trail. That meant she would have to use someone unconnected to herself to do the actual purchases. Complicated, perhaps, but certainly doable. 

Satisfied that Severus wouldn’t argue with her, she slid from his mind. He blinked, and a certain spark reappeared in his eyes. Hermione had to resist the urge to pout. She hoped to someday get to the point with her Hybrid Legilimency skills that her subjects would display no difference at all. Perhaps then it would feel like she’d never meddled at all, leaving no recognizable trail. 

“Get me the recipe soon,” Severus said, his voice no sharper than before. “When do you need it?”

“As soon as it’s viable,” Hermione replied. She wished she could design a potion which would be indistinguishable but with less devastating effects, for she knew she would have to imbibe the potion herself, but she didn’t need an Arithmancy projection to figure out that Voldemort would thoroughly test any potion he didn’t make himself. It must be exactly what he needs, or he would not risk using it. 

This answer didn’t seem to comfort Severus, but he nodded thoughtfully. 

“I’ll have the recipe by tomorrow,” Hermione said. When she met his eyes again, any cursory test of her Occlumency would have shown nothing but an impenetrable wall of mirrors, and from Severus’s expression, he didn’t like what he saw. 

She may not have the ability to use a wand, but at least she had this. 

 


	2. Pertinacious Occupation

The coins knocked against one another like air molecules in a balloon in the serviceable drawstring pouch. Hermione placed a hand against it, muffling the sound.

“Bones,” she said, watching with a dim sort of satisfaction as he jumped at the sound of her voice. “It’s good that I caught you here.”

Edgar Bones looked up, instinctively meeting her gaze. Hermione swam through his pupils with practiced ease, bypassing reefs of unrest and pockets of air. His thoughts were a lagoon— not an uncommon format. After hardly even a heartbeat, she’d spread her influence as a film over the water.

The library was empty of every other student. She’d made sure it would be that way. Instead of speaking her request aloud, she arranged her command directly within his mind and set it to self-destruct. He would take the money, order the ingredients, deliver them inconspicuously to Hermione, and then forget that the exchange ever happened. Nor would he mention it to anyone else.

It was so _easy_. A Ravenclaw child in a good family didn’t know the sort of conflict that would lead to forming natural defenses, and children in general were so trusting. Legilimency and Occlumency on their own were guarded secrets, and Hermione was constantly thankful.

Besides, who would suspect _her_ of that?

She’d told Regulus that she would meet him at the Black Lake, so she would have to get going. Bones was staring with empty eyes at his book when she left him.

Regulus hadn’t needed her to convince him. She’d simply reminded him that she was the Selwyn heir, and he did the rest all on his own. It helped that she had pulled her public image together in the year she’d had to work on it, so there was no longer a stigma to associating with her. Her magical talent was sufficiently small as to render her harmless, so she was viewed as just a Pureblood Lady, good for little besides marriage. She wouldn’t need much magic to manage a household, not with the help of a team of house elves.

Of course, she’d done her best not to let on that she couldn’t do magic _at all_. Outside of classes the other students saw very little of her. Her dorm mates saw nothing.

Though her Hybrid Legilimency was a handy roundabout solution to many of her problems, it was still a constant stab in her side that she couldn’t use a wand. She hated that she’d had to become a paranoid just to keep from staying still long enough to be subjected to an attack which she wouldn’t be able to repel.

“Mr Black, thank you for meeting me here,” Hermione said once she was within comfortable hearing distance.

Regulus stood facing away from the castle, his rigid spine presenting an unappetizing lack of openness. His hair rustled in the slight breeze, and Hermione wondered at how someone so similar in appearance to his brother could be so obviously different even from behind. She closed her eyes for just a moment, chastising herself for bringing up Sirius. When she opened them, Regulus had turned and was looking at her. “Of course, Miss Selwyn,” he said, smooth and noncommittal.

An acute sense of loneliness washed over her, but Hermione shook it off. “How is your family? I’ve never had the honour of meeting your estimable parents, but mine tell me much.”

“My parents are well,” he said, and his face was carefully calm.

“I understand your brother attends Hogwarts, as well? A Gryffindor, yes?” How had she expected herself to keep Sirius’s memory out of her head while looking at this somber version of him? It couldn’t be done, not by her, not just then.

“Yes.” His tone revealed nothing, but Hermione knew him well enough to know what he was thinking.

Hermione’s lips twitched. “You mistake me, sir. House rivalries seem no other than ridiculous to me, though I’ll readily admit that perhaps I just haven’t grown up with them as so many of the peers did. However, from my perspective this may also be for the best.”

“Is that so,” Regulus drawled, no less stiff.

“I must apologize. I couldn’t resist needling you about it. Your brother is perfectly lovely, I’m sure.” Hermione tossed her head, covering a smirk. “I’m here to speak to you, though, and not about Sirius. Come, sit with me.” She settled on the bank, her legs folded over themselves. After a moment of glaring, Regulus followed suit.

“How is your family, then, Miss Selwyn?” Regulus was angry, if the set of his mouth was any indication.

“We’re getting along well. They deny me nothing, and I must say that does _wonders_ for our relationship.” She was beginning to get the hang of double-speak. “Besides my arrival, very little has changed for them.”

“I see,” said Regulus, and she had no doubt that he’d received her message, loud and clear. “Have you heard from your cousin, then?” He said it as though he wanted to spit it instead, but knew that undue aggression wouldn’t go over well.

“Cousin Gwion did make a very... interesting decision,” Hermione said, lip curling. “It takes courage to go against one’s family, after all. Such courage, under the right circumstances, is to be admired.”

He didn’t respond at first, only watched her with an incredulity that he confined to his eyes. “You are the heir now,” he said at last.

“Yes,” Hermione said, smiling as pleasantly as she could manage. “He would do well to contact me.”

“And if he doesn’t change his mind?”

Hermione shrugged. “That’s his business.”

Regulus nodded, and the relaxation of his muscles told her that she’d passed a test. “What’s in it for you?”

“I can’t expect to have my way entirely if I’m the only one enforcing it,” she laughed. “I’m a woman, after all. I need allies, and Cousin Gwion would be an excellent choice. So would you, Mr Black.”

“Understood,” Regulus murmured.

“I’m so glad we’re in accord,” Hermione sighed, leaning back on her arms. “It does make things easier.”

*|II8II|*

Only a few days after that conversation, a cranky screech owl dropped a letter on her plate. Hermione ran her thumb over the blank outside of the parchment and put it in her pocket to read later.

Even as she did it, Hermione acknowledged that few at the Ravenclaw table would be suspicious enough to want to read her correspondence. It was a precaution, even if her gut told her it was unnecessary, that she would not forgo. If anyone, _anyone_ , caught a whiff of what she was really doing, she wouldn’t need to worry about her limited time anymore.

Would that be so bad, though?

Hermione paused, setting her fork down. Would it be so bad to die early? Perhaps the timelines would even be better off without her bumbling ruining everything. Not to mention, she would finally get to rest.

As wonderful as _rest_ sounded, she knew in every fibre of her being that she would never accept death until she was finished with her job. Hermione’s lips lifted in a snarl down at her plate. Her sense of responsibility and her intense will to live were really making things difficult.

“You gonna eat that?” said Pius Thicknesse. “I don’t think staring at it like that will be very helpful.”

Hermione looked up, tucking her anger away behind a thin smile. “I wasn’t aware I’d invited you to comment,” she said, quasi-pleasantly.

“You did not,” said Thicknesse, stiffly. “But while I’m butting in where I’m not welcome, I might as well inform you that that attitude of yours won’t help you when we eventually decide that Squibs should stay home.”

“Is that so?” Hermione purred. A threat! An honest-to-goodness, unveiled threat! It was _perfect_ , and no one would be able to fault her for retaliating! “And you plan to lead this little movement, Thicknesse?”

The seventh year may have been in Ravenclaw for a reason, but he’d painted himself into a corner. “I wouldn’t need to,” he said, eyes darting to either side of him to search for allies. He found a few, and relaxed some.

“Bypassing the obvious fact that Squibs don’t get Sorted,” Hermione said, adrenaline rising, “I’m no Muggleborn to be harmed with impunity.”

By the sharp downturn of Thicknesse’s mouth, he’d forgotten about that little complication. She was powerful even without magic, and he just didn’t know enough about how far her family would go to avenge her. “Be that as it may,” he said, waving a hand as if to dismiss her, “Perhaps you would do well to police your behavior better.”

“One can hope,” Hermione said, lamenting that breaking his fingers would be overkill for this situation. Indeed, if she felt like it, she could perform Hybrid Legilimency on him. But really, what would that solve? Thicknesse was one little boy in a sea of people who were learning to hate her. Ignoring the hassle that would come of hunting down everyone who would consider laying a beatdown on the “Squib” in their midst, Hermione couldn’t deny that she was having fun with this conflict.

That perverse thought buoyed Hermione throughout the rest of the day. She found she could even tolerate attending the exact same classes she’d sat through three times before, a chore which was no small contributor to Hermione’s perpetual sour mood. There were only so many textbooks she could reasonably claim were related to the lecture, but today she was happy to leaf through a ratty calculus textbook. Sure, she caught a sharp look from Professor McGonagall, but even the Transfiguration professor let her be.

Hermione skipped dinner altogether and retreated to the Room of Requirement, the place she’d spent almost all of her free time. She’d never once spent the night in the bed that Hogwarts had prepared for her in the Ravenclaw Tower, a decision that had sparked relentless speculation from her housemates. She didn’t regret it, for no one came close to the truth, and she enjoyed being an enigma.

Smiling to herself, Hermione pulled her cousin’s letter from her pocket and unfurled it.

_Cousin Hermione,_

_Please accept my warmest welcome to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Selwyn. Our esteemed Paterfamilias has long wished for a child and heir, and the wishes of the Paterfamilias are the wishes of the family. That you are Pure of both blood and ideology is the greatest relief._

_To be frank, I had not thought to greet you personally until our mutual friend whispered in my ear. Such an oversight is grave indeed, and I wish to convey my sincere apologies._

_If you are so inclined, please continue our correspondence._

_Yours,_

_G.S._

Hermione smiled at the parchment. For such a short missive, her cousin had communicated much. She especially appreciated that dig in the second line about not being especially happy now that there was a direct heir. She could understand that. Gwion was unlikely to ever be Paterfamilias, but his life would drastically change depending on which of his relatives did succeed Morfan. Under Morfan’s “rule”, Gwion was in disgrace, but he’d almost certainly made plans for when Morfan passed the mantle on. Hermione’s abrupt arrival had definitely upset his plans.

Of course, that was precisely _why_ she’d chosen to contact him. He would be all too eager to court her favour, or even to establish himself as a vital asset to her weak, feminine spirit. Gwion Selwyn, as Hermione recalled, was a misogynist.

Further, he’d made it as clear as was polite that he hadn’t considered her worthy of his time or acknowledgment before Regulus told him that she was willing to help him restore some of his status. Perhaps he’d assumed that she would follow in her adopted parents’ footsteps.

Well. As entertaining as it was, it didn’t contain any information that was actually _useful_. Not a surprise, that. He was feeling her out, and it was up to her to make sure he got the right impression.

Biting her lip, Hermione wished a quill, ink, and parchment into existence and set about crafting her reply.

*|II8II|*

“The potion is finished,” Severus said.

Hermione frowned. “You couldn’t have mentioned that an hour ago?” she said. They’d sat together in silence for at least that long, and he’d barely even greeted her.

“I could have,” he said, smirking.

She lowered her eyes to her essay, not wanting him to see the trepidation in them. After all, she would certainly be required to ingest it herself. “It is as I’ve described? Have you tested its efficacy?”

“Of course I have,” Severus barked. “What do you take me for?”

“A human being, perhaps? A teenage boy? My apologies, I seem to be mistaken.”

“You forget that this is a favor I’m doing you.”

Ignoring that little untruth, Hermione said, “One I’m grateful for. Now can you take me to it? Please?”

His eyes glazed over as his mind registered the ingrained command, and he nodded in silence.

*|II8II|*

“Cousin Hermione, how pleasant to meet you in person,” Gwion Selwyn said, bending over her proffered hand.

“The same to you, Cousin,” Hermione said. “Your home is lovely. My compliments to your elves.”

Gwion cocked an eyebrow at that, but let it slide without comment. “Your guardians, I trust they are well?”

“As well as ever,” Hermione laughed. “I’m sorry if that’s disappointing.”

“I can’t say I would be heartbroken,” Gwion said.

Hermione met his eyes. “Won’t you invite me to sit?” It rang of a command, though an innocuous one. She needed to gauge his mental defenses before trying anything too risky. She was enjoying her secure position, notwithstanding a few ill-wishers, and if Voldemort caught wind that she was trying to manipulate his underlings then that security wouldn’t be worth a Knut.

To Hermione’s intense relief, Gwion’s eyes glazed over and he beckoned her to the sofa.

Still, that didn’t mean much. There was no harm in it, nothing to trigger his mind to fight her. She wouldn’t let down her guard. “I trust there are no listening charms on this room? I didn’t put so much effort into keeping this away from prying eyes to allow it near prying ears.”

“No, there are no listening charms,” Gwion said.

“Or other surveillance charms? Of any kind?”

“That’s correct.”

“In that case, please allow me to cut to the heart of the matter. I cannot spend long away from Hogwarts without being detected, you understand.”

“I’m sure that someday you’ll tell me how you managed to get away in the first place,” Gwion said, “But do go on.”

Hermione closed her eyes. This would require delicacy, to stand up to Voldemort’s scrutiny. “I have with me a potion,” she said, pulling out the flask and setting it on the glass coffee table between them. The emerald liquid caught the light and sent it dancing through the room. “One I’m sure our Lord will have a use for.”

“What is it?” Gwion asked, and Hermione smiled to see his frustration at not being able to identify it himself.

“The Drink of Despair,” Hermione said. “It forces the drinker to relive their worst memories, rather as a Dementor does, while depleting energy and causing intense dehydration. Furthermore, it will not be moved except to be drunk, provided the container isn’t specifically charmed against this.”

“While interesting, to be sure,” Gwion said, “How are you so sure that the Dark Lord will have a use for it?”

Hermione looked him directly in the eye, so suddenly he couldn’t turn away. It was _vital_ that he believe her. “I’m a Seer,” she said. “I know exactly how he will use it, and why. I would tell you, except he may kill you for possessing that knowledge. It is my hope that he will see that I’m too useful to kill. Right, My Lord?”

At last she let him blink, and they spent the next few moments in silence. He processed the emotions and convictions she’d forced through his mind, and Hermione prayed that being so direct wouldn’t ruin the plan, and that Voldemort wouldn’t notice that something was off with Gwion’s memory.

“I will be sure to alert the Dark Lord,” Gwion said at last, and Hermione grinned.

*|II8II|*

After that, there was little Hermione could do but wait, and waiting was something she’d acquired a particular talent for. She strained her metaphorical ears for any hints as to Voldemort’s movements, and found some.

Separately, Regulus and Severus came to her to express their concerns.

“He has been asking for details of you,” Regulus said quietly. “I don’t know what you did, and he doesn’t seem displeased, but I would advise caution.”

“What in Merlin’s name possessed you to do something to catch his notice?” Severus demanded.

All was as it should be. A letter from Gwion proved that he had not been killed, and he assured her in person that the potion was well received. After some questioning, Voldemort seemed to believe that her premonitions were her only real virtue, as reports from the youngest of his would-be recruits indicated her lack of magical strength. Apparently her strangeness was also brought to light, but this was easily put down to being a Seer.

Winter came and went, but Hermione remained patient. She had the Ring and the Diadem, and only the Diary posed a serious problem. Lucius Malfoy already had possession of it, and she could always get Vici to bring her, but she was completely unsure what his wards consisted of. Sure, it allowed house elves through, but what about Hermione? Would they detect her? She’d rather not set off any alarms at all, seeing as she would still have to break into Gringott’s and probably not catch Voldemort’s attention any more than necessary.

She hated it, but she needed more information before she could move forward. It would be tight, but there was a strong possibility that Hermione could destroy all of the Horcruxes in her allotted time.

In the meantime, Pius Thicknesse and his comrades-in-opinion grew less content to simply make her aware of their ire. Sometimes they stooped to truly childish measures, such that Luna had endured from this House decades in the future. Hermione’s effects often found themselves in inconvenient places, or sometimes missing altogether. She knew better than to give them the satisfaction of tearing around looking for things, and Vici was invaluable in recovering those items which she could not reasonably do without.

Hermione, as forbearing as she had learned to be, had a temper no cooler than it had ever been. She did nothing, said little more, but she remembered. Oh, she would remember this, and each and every one of them would find the future inhospitable.

She would find the time to deal with them someday, but until that time she had a job to do.

It was January before her efforts bore fruit.

Vici’s ears drooped low, but her voice was strong as she reported the news to Hermione. Regulus, not having been actually inducted into the Dark Lord’s ranks, had never volunteered Kreacher to be Voldemort’s guinea pig, so one of the Lestrange elves had gone instead. The poor thing had been adroit enough to Apparate away, the same as Kreacher had, which was a relief. Hermione could guarantee that that elf would have no master willing to avenge them.

Hermione, itchy though she was, spent several days monitoring the cave to make sure no one came back to check on it.

“What are you planning?” Regulus asked, cool as you please.

Hermione wasn’t aware she’d been quite so obvious, but did it really matter? She was confident that Regulus wouldn’t go tattling to his Master, nor would Voldemort see the boy as important enough quite yet to read him in depth. Although, it was a risk no matter what. Hermione was barely certain of her own Occlumency skills in the face of Voldemort’s talent.

“I’m going to collect a Horcrux,” she said after barely a beat.

His reaction was everything she could have hoped for. The blood drained from his already-pale face, and his eyes were blown wide. He looked very, very young and very, very scared. “You wouldn’t joke about this,” he said, his voice so hoarse as to be barely audible.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Hermione agreed. “It’ll be a challenge, I suppose, but I know a bit about the defenses and it shouldn’t be too hard to pass them. There’s one issue, though.”

“What’s that?” Regulus’s coloring was coming back under control.

“I need someone with a wand.”

“You have a wand.”

Hermione tipped her head back, staring at the sky. It was too easy to forget which version of each person knew. Apparently she’d never _actually told him_ that she didn’t have access to her magic. She took a moment to explain, scowling all the while. She _hated_ needing help, and she _hated_ having to admit weakness.

“You absolutely cannot go alone,” he said.

“Well, of course not,” she said. “I’ll have Vi— my house elf drop me off on site, and then I just need someone to draw the boat up for me and force me to drink the potion, then get me out safely.”

“I’ll go,” Regulus said, with no hesitation.

Was that what she wanted? She had no way of knowing whether the boat would recognize her as an adult or not, and she needed someone to go along with her who wouldn’t be recognized by the magic, like a house elf or a child. However, she did need someone who could draw the boat up in the first place, and furthermore defend against Inferi and have the strength of will to force a potion down her throat. Sure, Vici could Apparate her to the cave, but could she fight off hordes of the undead? Could she really do something to harm Hermione, whom she loved with single-minded devotion? What about if Hermione begged her to stop, what then? No, she really should take along a wizard, and Regulus was volunteering for the position.

“Fine,” she said, “But you must do exactly as I say. It will not be a comfortable experience, and I cannot guarantee that both of us will come out alive.”

“Of course.”

“You know, you’re being awfully Gryffindor about this.”

Regulus glared at her. “It’s a Horcrux,” he said, as if that were all that mattered. Perhaps he had a point.

“Right then,” Hermione chirped. “Meet me here at midnight. I’ll have everything we need. Don’t bring anything, besides your wand, which you wouldn’t mind losing.”

She stared after him for several moments when he turned away, something approaching pride and, perhaps, trepidation in her countenance.


	3. Quiescent Quietus

**** Hermione went to class as usual. She was well beyond that sort of nervous excitement which would have kept her twitchy and unable to focus. Indeed, she felt exhausted. Nothing could shake the feeling that this mission would go terribly, horribly wrong, and nothing could shake the apathy she felt at the thought. 

She met Regulus at midnight that night, carrying a knapsack with water bottles, Muggle emetics, and a sharp knife. She held a lantern in either hand, and the light was so bright it obscured most of her body. Vici stood at her side, fidgeting and worrying at her lip. Hermione suspected that Vici would never be quite used to the adventures Hermione insisted they go on; she also wouldn’t put it past the astute little elf to have the same intuition as Hermione herself did. 

Regulus, for his part, brought nothing but his wand.  _ Good boy _ , she thought. 

“Are you sure about this?” Hermione asked, holding out one of the lanterns. 

“Let’s just go,” said Regulus, taking the lantern. Hermione could detect a tiny tremor running through him, and his face was white. Perhaps a better person would have made him stay behind, would have found another way, but instead she nodded and held out her free hand to Vici. 

In less than a moment, the trio stood at the entrance to the cave. Hermione unsheathed the knife and tested the edge. Only magic could get a knife so sharp. With no further hesitation, she cut a thin line on the underside of her elbow and smeared the blood on the wall. 

“Go home, wait for my call,” said Hermione to Vici, who spared a moment to study her with worried eyes before Disapparating. 

_ And then there were two _ , Hermione thought. 

Hermione and Regulus passed the opening of the cave. Both were silent except for the echoing of their footsteps. When they came to the edge of the water, Hermione motioned for Regulus to pull up the boat. 

“ _ Accio boat! _ ” Regulus incanted, his voice bouncing off the walls and coming back to them fragmented. The chain did not appear, and neither did the boat. The water didn’t even ripple. 

“No, not like that.” Hermione knelt, setting the lantern down beside her. The stone was rough beneath her knees. “Hold out your hand— like this, copy me— and feel for the magic. You must have been taught how.”

Regulus obeyed, moving his hand slowly over the surface of the lake. After a moment, he nodded to her. “What now?”

“Grab hold and pull,” she said. 

He grasped the invisible chain and strained, hand over hand, until the edge of the boat seemed to touch his hand. 

They piled into the boat without a word, and it began to move. They could see through the bottom of the boat, and humanoid shapes shifted below them, surrounding them. The shapes were docile, only moving with the current of the water. Hermione couldn’t spare much concern for them. She couldn’t say the same for Regulus, though; he never took his eyes off the water, his face wan and pinched in the lantern light. She wouldn’t have to remind him not to touch the water. 

After several long minutes, the boat scraped against the shore of the tiny island. Hermione let Regulus get out first, and in exchange he held out a hand to help her onto dry land. 

She’d managed not to dwell on what she was about to do, but the glow of the emerald potion she’d brought into the world was a forcible reminder. She could force her breathing to be slow and even, but her heart beat fast and hard in her chest, an unwilling prisoner. 

Hermione closed her eyes and took a careful, deep breath. The air stung her lungs. She took another breath. 

Fine. It was time to follow through. 

Swinging the knapsack onto the ground, Hermione removed one of the water bottles. She knew even before lifting it that something was wrong, and her eyes only confirmed what her touch had confirmed. 

The water bottle was sealed, but it was completely empty. They all were. 

It occurred to her, not for the first or even the dozenth time, that this plan barely deserved the title. It was reckless, what she was doing, reckless, ill-thought-out, mad, stupid. The thing that really held her still, if just for a moment, was that she didn’t care. She was going to do it anyway. Worse, she was dragging a child into it as well, and damning herself with foreknowledge. Was she so transformed from the woman she’d been only— what, four years ago? Three? She’d thrown up when she’d first realized how young Regulus had been when he’d been forced to become a Death Eater. She’d been worse than distraught, she’d been revolted. Hadn’t she? And now, she was doing exactly what had so offended her sensibilities. 

Silently, Hermione repacked all but one. “Regulus,” she called. He turned from the water, which he’d been eyeing suspiciously the whole time. “Listen to me. You’ll need to take this,” here she handed him the empty water bottle, “and fill it with the potion in the basin. Don’t waste your time trying to pour it onto the ground. It won’t work. I’m going to need you to bring it to me and make me drink it. All of it, do you hear me? I need you to make me drink even when I beg you to stop— and I  _ will  _ beg you. I’ll promise you anything. I’ll be crying, I’ll be screaming. Don’t you  _ dare _ stop, understand? This will be difficult to watch, but it won’t last too long if you don’t muck about with it.”

Bless his little Slytherin heart, he nodded, resolute. “I understand.”

“Good. I’ll be thirsty afterwards. No matter what, don’t touch the water. Got it? That’s the very last thing we want.”

“I understand.”

Hermione watched with blank eyes as he dipped the water bottle into the potion, filling it up all the way. He brought it to her, and she brought it to her lips under her own power. She let it tip into her mouth, noting that it tasted like mineral water. Quickly, before it could take effect, she downed the whole thing. The plastic crinkled under her hands.

Regulus took the bottle back, turning away to get more, and then the visions came. She’d known they would. She’d known, had steeled herself for them, but it hadn’t been enough. 

Sirius’s face materialized before her eyes, full of hurt, hate, rage. Dimly, she was aware that he wasn’t really there, but that knowledge was too far away to help her. Sirius was here, and nothing else really mattered. Not the battle blazing just outside of their hiding place behind a tapestry, not the innocent lives being lost right that moment, not even her own emotions. Sirius was spitting vitriol at her, calling her a whore, accusing her of being a Death Eater, and nothing mattered except that she clasp him close to her. She did not. She could not. 

Regulus handed her the water bottle, and she drank. 

The image was stronger now. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought that you would be safer this way. I didn’t think— I didn’t know—”

The dementor left, taking her energy with it, but not her will. Now, though, she was exhausted by her own tenacity. A rat in a maze, wasn’t she? Stubborn, stubborn, with dead eyes and running legs. 

She drank. 

It was her own choice to be in this cell. She’d  _ chosen  _ this, chosen the greater good over herself. It should have made her feel better! It should have made her into a martyr for the cause, it should have bound her in light. Her decision to sacrifice herself, her own sanity, should have solidified her as firmly on the side of good, but it had not. No matter the choices she made, she could not escape from the dark. There were no windows in her cell, no windows in her soul. 

“Beat your head against the walls,” she cooed. “You want to. You’ve wanted to for ages. It’s better to be dead than to be in here.”

And Titus obeyed her, obeyed her with such a smile on his face. As if this were salvation for him. As if he’d stumbled through his whole life blind, and her orders gave him a purpose. As if, at long last, he’d peered through a window and found the world beautiful. He’d thrown his head back, and back, and back, and when in the end he slumped forward he smiled still. 

She drank. 

It didn’t matter. Titus may have found peace in the final moments of his miserable fucking life but she was still here, wasn’t she! She was being used for the amusement of the gods just as Titus had been used for hers, but she wasn’t given the luxury of peace. She would never succeed in her task. She didn’t even know what her task was! Every death had been for nothing, her corruption would be for nothing. She was  _ trapped _ here, and none of it  _ mattered. _ It was all her fault in the end, couldn’t she at least have the decency to care? Couldn’t she?  _ Couldn’t she? _

Harry, eyes so bright, so furious, stood tall over her. He didn’t come to her as a little boy this time, not as he always had. He was seventeen, and his wand pointed somewhere behind her. She didn’t have to turn to know that Voldemort was there, and she couldn’t look away as the Avada Kedavra hit Harry low in his stomach. Harry didn’t curl over it, just pitched forward. Avada Kedavra worked by severing soul from body. It was supposed to be the kindest death. 

She screeched his name over and over and over and over and— 

The cave floor was freezing against her cheek, that cold soaking through her clothes and skin. She was shivering so hard it hurt, but that was nothing, because above all she was  _ thirsty _ . 

“Are you okay?” Regulus asked, and Hermione tried not to notice how much he looked like Sirius, how much his voice sounded like Harry’s. “You seemed to be having some trouble, towards the end.”

_ Refuge in the understatement _ , she tried to say, but couldn’t get her throat to work. It took her a few tries, but at last she made some sound to convey her problem. 

Regulus screwed up his face a bit, but seemed to comprehend her, since he went to the bag Hermione had abandoned on the ground beside her. He dug through it, finding only crinkling plastic, by the sound of it. 

“They’re all empty,” he squawked, as if she hadn’t already known that. 

Hermione worked on peeling herself off of the ground. She’d catch her death, at this rate. Her muscles didn’t hurt, they just didn’t have the energy to move her. Everything was numb. Everything. 

Regulus flitted about the island, and Hermione got herself to a seated position. “Vici,” she croaked.

The dear little thing appeared instantly, as if she’d been waiting for the call. “Yes, Hermy?” 

“Water,” was all Hermione could say. She wanted to explain, but her throat just couldn’t handle it. She closed her eyes, trying to get a handle on her exhaustion. Vici would handle it. Vici would make it better. 

There was silence for several moments, and then a high, reedy, terrified shriek echoed through the cave. Hermione’s eyes snapped open, her eyelids twin emery boards. She was an idiot, a moron, a simpleton, a cretin— she’d thought Regulus would make sure that Vici should  _ absolutely not touch the water _ . 

It was her fault for bringing someone into the situation uninformed. It was her fault for being too parched, too tired, to use her brain or her body. 

“Come!” she said, coughing, tugging on their bond. Vici, who had since disappeared under the surface of the water, Apparated to her side. In her hands she cupped as much water as she could. Hermione seized her by the wrists and swallowed that meagre mouthful. It couldn’t possibly be enough, but it would have to be. 

Regulus was not yet surrounded, by virtue of him backing up step by step towards the pair. He brandished his wand, sending curse after impotent curse. Even if they’d been effective, there were simply too many of the Inferi. He was panicking, clearly, his breath coming ragged and his movements jerky. 

He wasn’t the only one in trouble. Behind her Hermione could hear the slosh of the lake and the slow steps of more corpses. If she didn’t do something, all three of them would die. If she did, someone would be left behind. Vici could only take one of them away from here. Hermione couldn’t move of her own accord, Vici couldn’t drag her, and Regulus was too close to being overrun and yet still too far away from them. The moment any of them were caught was the moment their choices ran out. There was no  _ time _ . 

Under those constraints, the solution was simple. It was the only honorable way to fix this. The only acceptable outcome. 

After all, this was her fault. And hadn’t she known it would come to this? Hadn’t she known all along that someone would die today?

Hadn’t she, perhaps not so deep down, wanted that? She was so... so tired. 

“Take him!” Hermione cried, shoving Vici towards Regulus. “Take him, bring him home!” Vici spared her only a glance before launching herself at the boy, wrapping thin, spindly arms around his leg and Apparating them both to safety. 

Her thirst was overpowering, agonizing, and even as Inferi shuffled towards her she dragged herself to the edge of the water and bent her head down to drink. It was cool and unpleasant, but Hermione ignored that and gulped it down. 

Inferi surfaced in front of her, and Hermione kicked and screamed as they dragged her into the black water. 

She was lucky, some part of her mind recognized, that these Inferi wouldn’t tear her limb from limb. She would only have to drown, and then her body would join the masses.

For a moment she tried to make peace with it, but then her lungs began to burn and every instinct shrieked that she wanted to  _ live _ , that she would not greet Death as an “old friend”. She thrashed, but her strength was waning and she was unable to dislodge even one of the hands grasping her. 

In the end, she couldn’t even want to die. She could sabotage her whole life, she could put innocents in danger, she could self destruct, but she couldn’t let go of her damnable, indomitable will to live.

It wasn’t long—a minute? Five?—before Hermione opened her mouth and breathed, the need for oxygen overriding the mammalian diving reflex. The water seared its way down her throat and into her lungs. Everything  _ burned _ . Water had never been meant to travel through her windpipe, and every piece of her tried to push it out— she coughed, desperately, compulsively, and then breathed in again.

Hermione should have died, but she did not. The physical pain ebbed as the pulses from her nerves to her brain stopped, and then there was nothing. For a brief, blessed moment there was nothing. 

Her body died, and then the pain started again. 

Since it wasn’t a physical pain, Hermione couldn’t pinpoint exactly where it started, but it swept through her in pulses. The Cruciatus was nothing to this; in fact, it seemed similar to the torture she’d experienced when Aberforth performed the ritual on her. Whereas then it was localized to her arm, now it spread throughout her entire being, and there was nothing Hermione could do. She couldn’t even cry, couldn’t scream. There was no room for thought, no way to act, and so she had no choice but to endure. 

Sometimes the pain remained steady for a minute or more, and in those moments Hermione could “see”, but there was nothing but the black waters around her and the dormant corpses of Voldemort’s victims. If she’d had eyelids, she would have closed them. Blankness was better than the scene before her. 

Conscious thought was almost impossible, but some part of Hermione recognized that she would be destroyed if she ever let go of herself. She clung to the bedrock of her Occlumency walls, which had been pressed into indestructibility during her time in Azkaban. She spun her webs again and again, felt them shatter under the strain, built them up again, until walls of the same diamond density as the foundation began to form. 

Endure. There was nothing to do but endure. 

 


End file.
